


In Which Crowley Wakes Up Early

by omensfromeden



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Crowley wakes up, M/M, Pining, The Bentley - Freeform, The Bentley Ships It (Good Omens), Wake Up Crowley, crowley is a useless pining mess, quarantine call, the best of queen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-27
Updated: 2021-01-27
Packaged: 2021-03-13 02:54:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29021541
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/omensfromeden/pseuds/omensfromeden
Summary: Crowley wakes up two days early, jolted awake by a dream of Aziraphale. Distressed about Aziraphale’s feelings and his own, Crowley fights internally with himself about whether he should go see him.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 37





	In Which Crowley Wakes Up Early

**Author's Note:**

> i started writing this in july and i just never posted it (it’s not complete to how i would like it but it’s complete) just pretend we actually got an update that crowley woke up

Crowley felt the mattress become closer to his body as a perfectly manicured porcelain hand pushed him down against the bed. He raised his hands, running them gently up and down the gorgeous thighs that straddled either side of his hips. He looked up, meeting eyes with the angel that hovered above him, hair and skin glowing like, well, an angel.  
“Aziraphale,” He whispered softly, raising one hand to cup his cheek in much the same soft manner, as if he was afraid that this beautiful thing, this heavenly thing would no longer be his if he went too fast.  
If he went too fast his angel would break, like glass, like the porcelain in which his skin resembled.  
Aziraphale leaned down, pressing his lips against Crowley with the softest of touches. He swore if it was anyone else he wouldn’t have even felt it, just the ghost of a breath against his mouth. But this was Aziraphale, and he felt everything when Aziraphale was concerned.  
Suddenly Aziraphale was pressing down on him, with his lips, with his body, kisses becoming more and more urgent as his fingers tugged at Crowley’s shirt buttons.  
He felt the angel snap his fingers together moreso than he heard it, because suddenly all his clothes were gone, and worse still, so were Aziraphale’s.  
He sat up, grabbing Aziraphale’s hair with both hands and pulling him into a harsh kiss. Be damned with too fast. Be damned with breaking him. Aziraphale wanted him and he wanted Aziraphale, needed him. His hands travelled down Aziraphale’s body, gabbing, pulling, trying to explore every inch of him as if his life depended on it, and maybe it did.  
His hands moved lower and lower exploring parts of Aziraphale he’d never even thought about exploring for fear of the repercussions from heaven, hell, but those were no longer a problem, Aziraphale could finally be his. 

Crowley sprung into a seated position, his body caked in a cold sweat. He was panting, hard, his mind jumping back and forth between his darkened bedroom and the dream that had felt so much like reality. A better reality, but a reality nonetheless.  
He let out a heavy sigh, flopping back down against his satin pillows.  
Once he had taken a minute, maybe five, okay really closer to eight, he decided to check the date on his phone.  
“The 29th of June?” He pressed the heel of his hand into his eye.  
Two days before he told Aziraphale he was going to wake up. What was he supposed to do for two days? He needed to see Aziraphale. Now.

He bolted out of bed, miracling himself a new outfit and grabbing the keys to the Bentley. He slammed the door of his apartment shut. He needed to tell Aziraphale.  
Wait.  
Tell Aziraphale what? About the dream? About how madly, desperately, hopelessly in love with him Crowley was? No. He couldn’t do that.  
He stopped in his tracks, he was being ridiculous. Aziraphale didn’t want him like that. Aziraphale could never want him like that. He was too, too, well too Aziraphale, and Crowley was too Crowley even at the best of times. He was hard edges and dark clothing and mischief and smiles hidden behind scowls. He was nothing like the things Aziraphale cherished, he was a demon, a bad man, not worthy of love, let alone from an angel. 

Crowley walked back into his apartment, shutting the door with diminished enthusiasm. He found himself making his way to the kitchen, grabbing himself a glass and pouring, quite possibly a little bit too much, whiskey into it.  
What was he thinking? Storming off to see Aziraphale like that? For all he knew Aziraphale didn’t even want to see him.  
He threw himself down onto his throne chair rather unceremoniously, crossing his legs over the table.  
Would Aziraphale even be happy to see him? Sure, Aziraphale is almost always happy to see him, especially after a long time away. But how would he feel about Crowley leaving him alone, with nothing to do and no one to see because of this stupid pandemic.  
He switched on the tv, hoping against hope that something was going right with the world. But alas, he should know a demon would never get that lucky. The virus hadn’t gone away, in fact, it was getting worse, but the humans had decided to open everything back up. To fix the economy? Did these leaders and corporations really care more about the economy than human life? And he was supposed to be the demon? The fundamental stupidity of humans never ceased to amaze him.  
So the pandemic was still on, but he could still go out? He could see Aziraphale without him worrying about breaking social distancing rules. 

But would Aziraphale even want to see him? He hadn’t left any messages, and while Crowley had failed to teach him how to text, he did have that out of date phone that he definitely knew how to use. If he wanted to get in contact he would have. But maybe he was just giving Crowley some space? Maybe he did want to call but didn’t, the same way Crowley was sat here in his Mayfair apartment instead of at the bookshop like he wanted to be.  
He threw his legs off the table, standing up just as awkward and inhumanly as he had sat down. His feet carried him into the plant room, his body beginning inspections of the leaves as if on autopilot. There wasn’t a spot in sight, not a slight imperfection, even after so many weeks of not being watered. He told himself it was because of the fear he had put into them before going to sleep, but really they didn’t wither because he didn’t expect them to.  
A lot could have happened to his plants in two months. A lot could have happened to everything in two months. To Aziraphale. What if he had moved on with his life? What if he had met some wayward human and fell in love? It has happened to them, once or twice, living all these centuries amongst humanity it would be strange if it didn’t.  
Perhaps that’s why he hadn’t called, hadn’t left a single message, because he had forgotten. But surely, even still, he would feel the need to inform Crowley on this new relationship, especially when theirs had become so much closer since the thwarting of the apocalypse and the eleven years leading up to it. Especially since they had almost become something more than just friends, longing gazes becoming longer without the fear of being caught by the other, moments shared in which he could swear to, well, anybody, that Aziraphale was going to kiss him. Or had that all been in his imagination? Had he been projecting his own longing into the situation and mistook the situation entirely? Maybe things between them were no different now than they had been for the past six thousand years. If that was the case Aziraphale wouldn’t have a care in the world about Crowley sleeping for two months, they’d gone far longer without speaking. Maybe that was why Aziraphale hadn’t called, not because of some secret new lover, but because he didn’t care about Crowley as much as Crowley cared about him.  
It could be the only explanation.  
And if Aziraphale didn’t want to see him there was no reason for Crowley to run over the second he woke up, weird, intimate dreams be damned, so to speak.  
Unless that wasn’t the only explanation.  
What if something had happened? Something bad.  
What if something had happened to Aziraphale and he couldn’t call Crowley.  
And Crowley couldn’t come to his rescue like he always prided himself on doing because he was asleep like the useless demon that he was.  
Without even realizing it Crowley’s pacing had taken him to the front door, but before he could open it he noticed the slight prickling sensation in the back of his head. The presence of an angel, in Soho to be exact.  
Crowley took his hand off the handle, running it through his hair and tugging.  
Why was he being so ridiculous? This was Aziraphale for crying out loud.  
He took a deep breath, he was going to see Aziraphale, screw it. Screw whatever reason he had for not calling, he was a big, bad demon and he could see his angel if he wanted too.  
He made it one step out the door before he shut it again. Wine. He needed wine. 

After fishing around in his wine cabinet, which was far too big to logically fit within his small apartment kitchen (but don’t tell him that), he decided on an Italian Docletto he’d picked up on an assignment to Piedmont a few years back. He thought about going to the bakery around the corner and picking up Aziraphale some sweet treats, but decided against it. Knowing his angel he’d probably baked a thousand cakes in the time he’d been asleep. 

With the keys to the Bentley and bottle of wine in tow, Crowley made his way out of the apartment door for the third time that day. He headed for the stairs, jumping down them two at a time, and pushed the door to the garage open with a little bit more force than necessary, sending it swinging back into the wall. When he saw the Bentley his pace picked up, slowing only once he could run his hand along her. There wasn’t a scratch on her, not only because he believed there wouldn’t be, but because he paid the building staff a lot of money to ensure that was the case.  
He pulled out of the garage, making the 4 minute trip from Mayfair to Soho without even thinking about the road.  
His mind was thinking about Aziraphale, about how he would react to seeing him. He had wine? Surely that would soften whatever anger Aziraphale felt towards Crowley abandoning him.  
He should have called ahead, stupid, stupid, stupid demon. What if Aziraphale was preoccupied with someone or, or something and he told Crowley to leave? Even the thought of it cut deep.  
Maybe he should just turn home now?  
No, no, no. He was already on his way. He already had the wine. And his need to see Aziraphale outwayed this feeling of possible rejection. 

He switched on the radio, the Bentley choosing ‘The Best of Queen’ as usual. Honestly he didn’t know who had been infatuated with Freddie more, him or the car. The second he heard the opening bars of ‘Love Me Like There’s No Tomorrow’ he hit skip. The song reminded him too much of his situation with Aziraphale, about how he felt about him, his unrequited love.  
“Ooh, you make live, whatever this world ca-“  
No.  
“Love of my life, y-“  
No.  
“When love bre-“  
No. No.  
“I can dim the lights and sing you songs full of sa-“  
NO.  
He shut off the radio entirely. Goddamn Freddie and his stupid band, making all these songs that sound just a bit too close to his situation. 

Finally pulled up outside the bookshop, running his hands over his face and through his hair once again. Shit shit shit. He didn’t have his sunglasses. Aziraphale would take one look at him and read every feeling he’d ever felt about him all over his face.  
It was too late to turn back, if he went home now he wouldn’t be able to force himself to get back here. He’d just have to bite the bullet and hope Aziraphale didn’t pay too much attention to him. 

Slowly he climbed out of the Bentley, grabbing the bottle of wine from the passenger side with a shaking hand. He’d forgotten how many deep breathes he’d taken since waking up an hour ago, but he took another. 

He knocked on the door. Why did he do that? He never knocked. Surely he wasn’t that nervous to see Aziraphale. It was just Aziraphale after all. And the dream wasn’t that bad. No, no, it was pretty bad. Aziraphale has been naked and on top of him and they were- 

The door opened in front of him with a squeak and suddenly there was Aziraphale.  
He gulped.  
Aziraphale stared into his eyes with an expression that could be deemed as blank by someone who hadn’t known him for six thousand years, for someone who wasn’t Crowley. But Crowley, unfortunately, was Crowley, and his emotions were way too obvious when he was around Aziraphale, especially without his glasses. No Aziraphale wasn’t staring at him blankly, he was staring at Crowley as if he knew everything, knew how in love with him Crowley really was. The bastard probably even knew about his dream. 

“Crowley.” Was all Aziraphale said when he finally spoke.  
But he didn’t just say Crowley’s name, he breathed it out in that soft way he did that made the name itself feel like a term of endearment, like he wasn’t a damned creature. 

“I brought wi-“ 

Before he could even finish his sentence Aziraphale grabbed a fistful of Crowley’s shirt, pulling him closer and colliding their lips together haphazardly. Crowley made a noise of surprise, dropping the bottle with a sickening smash. 

Aziraphale sprang away from him eyes wide in shock, as if he was as surprised as Crowley was at his own actions. Aziraphale had kissed him. Aziraphale had been kissing him. Aziraphale’s lips. His lips. Together. And now it wasn’t going to happen again because Crowley had fucked it up being a dumb, bubbling, stupid, stupid, demon. 

Without any communication from his brain, Crowley hands found their way to Aziraphale’s face, pulling him into a kiss just as hard as the last. Crowley felt Aziraphale’s arms move beside him, one hand grabbing onto his hair while the other snaked around his waist, pulling their bodies even closer. This was actually happening, this was actually really happening. He was kissing Aziraphale, and it wasn’t a dream, it was so so much better than a dream. It was everything. Everything he had ever wanted. Everything he had ever imagined. And so much more. Aziraphale began to step backwards, but instead of letting Crowley go he held on tighter, dragging Crowley back into the bookshop with him.

**Author's Note:**

> i’ve never posted on here but um hi, sorry if you wasted your time reading that.


End file.
